A MESSAGE IN THE NIGHT
At the end of a month Ben Mayberry was made a messenger boy of the office
under my charge. This cannot be called a very momentous promotion,
inasmuch as many of our telegraphists begin there; but it doubled Ben's
wages at once, and led to his appearance in the attractive blue uniform
which the boys of the Western Union wear. In his case it seemed to add
two inches to his stature at once.
Ben was our best messenger from the first. He was acquainted with the
city of Damietta from one end to the other, and his superior fleetness of
foot enabled him to outstrip the others, while his cheerful, intelligent
manner added to his popularity with our customers.
As he was so young, I determined to keep him messenger for a longer time
than was really necessary, affording him all the opportunity he could ask
in which to learn telegraphy. He picked it up rapidly, and I was
surprised when I found him reading messages over the wires by sound. As
everyone knows, it takes a skillful operator, or rather one of
experience, to do this, a proof that Ben was applying himself to learning
the business with all the power at his command.
In more than one instance, those who knew the high estimation in which
the boy was held exerted themselves to put annoyances and obstructions in
his way. All manner of pretexts were made for detaining him, and he
showed no little originality and ingenuity in outwitting his very
attentive friends.
He continued to apply himself evenings, when not on duty at the office,
and his progress was excellent in every respect. The kind principal
showed great interest in him, and at the age of twelve Ben Mayberry
possessed what may be called a good elementary English education.
Before, however, these two years had passed he could receive and send
messages in a very acceptable manner. His wages had been advanced, and he
now had his mother in comfortable quarters, dressed tastefully himself,
and was developing into a handsome youth, whose brilliant work had
already attracted the notice of the general superintendent.
Ben had been an operator a little less than a year when he met with a
most extraordinary experience, which to-day is a theme of never-ending
wonder to those who were living in Damietta at the time.
One evening a rough-bearded man entered the office, and stepping to the
counter, said to me:
"My name is Burkhill--G. R. Burkhill--and I am staying at the hotel in
Moorestown. I am expecting a very important dispatch to-night, but I
cannot wait for it. If it reaches this office before ten o'clock, I wish
to have it delivered to the hotel."
Moorestown lay directly across the river, and was reached by the long,
covered bridge which spanned the stream. It was beyond our "jurisdiction,"
that is, outside the circle of free delivery, which Mr. Burkhill
understood, as he remarked that he would pay well for the trouble.
I assured him that I would see that the telegram reached him that night,
if received before ten o'clock. Thanking me, he said good-evening, passed
out, mounted his horse, and galloped away in the wintry darkness.
It was in the month of February, but the weather was mild for that
season, and there had been a plentiful fall of rain. Ben was on duty
until ten, and he was in the very act of rising from his seat when he
called out:
"Helloa! here comes the message for Mr. Burkhill."
It was quite brief and Ben wrote it out rapidly, took a hasty impression,
thrust it into the damp yellow envelope, and whistled for a messenger
boy. There was only one present, and he was a pale, delicate lad, who had
gone on duty that day after a week's illness.
"Helloa, Tim; do you want to earn a half dollar extra?" asked Ben, as the
boy stood expectantly before him.
"I would like to, if it isn't too hard for me."
Ben looked sharply at him and saw that the boy was in too weak a state to
undertake the task. There was no other messenger within call, and Mr.
Burkhill was doubtless impatient for the message whose delivery I had
guaranteed.
"It won't do for you to cross the river to-night," said Ben decisively;
"the air is damp and raw, and I think it is going to rain again. I'll do
it for you, and whatever extra I collect from Mr. Burkhill you shall
have, Tim; now go home and go to bed."
And waving me a good-night, Ben hurried out of the door and vanished down
the street.
"It's just like him," I muttered, as I prepared to go home; for except on
special occasions we closed our office at ten, or shortly after. "That
isn't the first kindness he has done that boy, and everyone in the office
is bound by gratitude to him."
As I stepped out on the street I observed that the fine mist was turning
into rain, and another of those dismal nights, which are often
experienced in the Middle States during the latter part of winter, was
upon the city.
I did not feel sleepy after reaching home. My wife and two children had
retired and were sound asleep. There was no one astir but myself, and
drawing my chair to the fire, I began reading the evening paper.
Fully an hour had passed in this manner and I was in the act of rising
from my chair, with the purpose of going to bed, when a sharp ring of the
bell startled me as though I had heard burglars in the house. I felt
instinctively that something serious had happened as I hurried to the
door.
"Did Ben Mayberry take a telegraphic message across the river to-night?"
asked the man, whom I recognized as a policeman.
"He started to do so," I answered tremblingly. "What's wrong."
"It's the last message he'll ever deliver; he has probably been killed!"